


Stick a cork in it

by SoulWriter



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky is a little shit, Italian Vineyard AU, M/M, Porn With Plot, Steve is done with everything, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulWriter/pseuds/SoulWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson own a small vineyard in Italy, Maria Hill is their cellar master, and Bucky Barnes is the cocky, insufferable sommelier superstar who wants to buy the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stick a cork in it

"Cosa le do oggi, signor Rogers? Le pesche sono appena arrivate, una meraviglia! senta che roba," _["What can I get for you today, Mr Rogers? The peaches are just in, truly wonderful! try one"]_  Mario offers Steve a silky peach to smell, propped in his thick gentle hand like a jewel. Steve doesn't even need to lean in, the whole storefront is filled with its scent. 

"Fammi un sacchetto, Mario," _["Make me a bag, Mario,"]_ Steve says, his accent still thick but with a perfect vocabulary. It's moments like this that make Steve Rogers enjoy the beauty of life in quiet awe; it's 11am on a weekday in a tiny town in Tuscany, he's buying groceries from his friend, it's May and the temperature is perfect, and he's home. 

He took a wild chance five years ago - his job in DC was getting to him, nothing seemed to satisfy him. He felt miserable. Luckily, he had decided to go to that sommelier course - if he hadn't, he wouldn't have met Sam Wilson, his best friend since then, and now, his business partner. Steve chuckles lightly to himself as Mario bags the peaches alongside the rest of the groceries: how many times Sam had cursed him for buying that property, how many interminable hours of hard work they had put into it. But at the end of the day, five years later, his vineyard was blooming and all the sweat and rust they had to push through had been worth it. As Steve hands him a bill, Mario drops a bunch of damp fresh herbs in the bag - the usual extra he always reserves for him. Another thing Steve likes about living here is that his penchant for giving away wine bottles just for the sake of being nice blends right in.

A screech right behind Steve makes him turn. Maria Hill, their cellar master, smiles at him, her legs outstretched to stop the bicycle she's riding down the paved street. She's a bit flustered and her dark hair are flying in her face, and the sudden stop made her things almost jump out of the wicker basket in front of the handlebars.

"Hey Steve," she says, blowing a strand out of her mouth.

Steve and Mario both greet her, in different languages - Maria's parents are American, like Steve, but she was born in Italy, hence her first name.

"Did you hear?" she ask, impatiently. Steve hasn't. "It's them Russians," she blurts out. "I'm coming from the inn, Cecilia told me they checked in yesterday," she leans more heavily on the handles, "They didn't set a departure date." she adds, her tone dropping.

Steve stands there for a second, taking in the news. The grocery bag weights in his arms, and he sighs the lightest. The problem with his vineyard is that they got pretty fucking good at it - growing the best and rarest vines - and as soon as word got out, the offers started pouring in. Steve and Sam had managed well at fending off pretty much all of them - except for the Russians. They don't even know who they are, they just kept sending lawyers to try and buy it, apparently deaf to them clearly stating the winery wasn't for sale under any circumstances. 

"Thanks for letting me know, Maria. I guess we'll handle it when it comes along. We'll just.. tell them no once again."

"They certainly can't make you sell," says Maria with a scoff, her feet already moving to the pedals. "I'll see you back at the cascina"

She kicks the bike and rolls down the street, towards their winery just outside the town. As Steve looks at her wheels bouncing off the uneven stones, he thinks he's not that sure these people will stop at anything. If there's a way to make him sell, he certainly doesn't want to find out.

 ***

"I don't know, Sam. Do I really have to be there?" asks Steve, pushing the wheelbarrow full of dirt. His white tshirt is too tight - like always - and it's smeared like the top of his cheekbones. His skin is flushed and he's squinting his eyes - it's 3 pm in the vine field, but he always forgets his sunglasses.

"You're the owner, it seems pretty crucial that you are present to your own vineyard's visitors tours," says Sam, hunched over the rose bush he's planting at the end of the row. "Pass the shovel, will ya?"

Steve huffs and hands the tool. 

Maria passes them, holding a whole bush in her arms. "Get over it Steve. Not even moving to the other end of the world is going to lift you from all social interaction duties."

Steve squints, knitting his brows - he takes off one of the gardener's gloves to rub the sweat off his forehead. "I'm already not over the moon for having to attend that stupid party tonight," 

"Networking," corrects Sam.

"Whatever. Bunch of people - which is usually fine, I'm just…" there's this feeling nudging him, "…Just a little on the edge, that's all."

Sam and Maria glance at each other like _there he goes,_ he's doing the Stance, putting his hands on his hips all dramatic.

When he doesn't feel alright, which luckily is not that often since he moved away from DC, he likes to look around and drink in the beauty of their hard work. They're putting down new roses down the center of the main path cutting across the vine fields, up to the winery. The stone building is just a hundred feet away, the two stories house with the deep low brick arch enclosing the porch, the winery just off to the side with the big wooden doors, a long low space that goes down into the ground to the cellars, and-

There are two people in front of the house. A guy and a woman, their backs at him. The guy is waving around at the facade like he's explaining something.

Steve frowns, rips off the other glove and just instinctively begins to pace towards them.

"Excuse me!" he addresses with his best commanding voice as soon as he is in ears-reach. "Excuse me! Are you looking for something?" Steve always tries to rule out the worst case scenario. Sam and Maria get up, puzzled, trailing him.

The two in front of the house seem unfazed, completely oblivious to his calls.

"Hello," Steve shouts again, now almost there. 

Sam chimes in behind him; "Excuse me, this is private property. Unless you're looking for someone we're gonna need you to leave," He sounds more menacing than Steve, thank god, because these two have that weirdo vibe and Steve detests doing these things.

The two seem to not even hear a thing. The guy gestures to his left again. "…y'know, over there, we could put the store, if the square footage isn't enough,"

Sam is about the call them again, when the guy turns.

"Oh here they are," he says, flashing a casual smile. 

And Steve is confused. It's impossible not to recognize that face, at least for someone in their line of business. He's James Barnes, youngest ever to pass Master Sommelier, a slew of world class titles, his own tv show - he's basically the Sommelier Rockstar. He smirks at them, his gray eyes lit by the sun, and he tucks a strand of his dark hair behind his ear. It immediately falls back, casually sensual. No wonder he ended up on the cover of Rolling Stones, thinks Steve. What the hell is he doing on his vineyard?

Both him and the girl next to him are completely overdressed for the countryside: Barnes has a thin tshirt over black skinny jeans and combat boots that have never seen dirt before, and she is wearing the tightest leopard print dress with stilettos, and a head of perfect ruby-red curls that shine even brighter than her piercing eyes. Against the torn jeans and stained tshirts they all sport, these two clash like they didn't even bother to change from their flight in from NYC. 

"It's them Russians," hisses Maria over Steve's shoulder. 

Of course. How could have Steve been so stupid - Barnes has Russian roots and lives between New York and Moscow these days - not that he has extensively read about it or anything - and the insistence seems to match his style. 

"What do you want," blurts out Steve, pinning his eyes on Barnes. The other moves on his feet, swinging his hips towards Steve, and Steve hopes his tone was cutting enough to drain all the cocky from him. It's not.

"Chill, man. I just came by to check out the place," he says, and holds out his hand. "James Barnes. But you can call me Bucky," he adds, trailing his eyes over the expanse of Steve's abs, fully visible under the worn out cotton. Steve cocks an eyebrow at him, not moving an inch to meet his hand. That doesn't seem to stop Barnes from sizing him up.

Only once Bucky's eyes have come back all the way up to Steve's face, he picks up again. "I had no idea who I was throwing offer after offer at all this time. Nice to finally meet you."

"Yeah. Well - I seem to remember we declined all your offers, on the very simple basis that the place _is not for sale_ ," this time Steve is sure to load every word with the driest tone.

"Oh! Don't worry," says Bucky, putting his hand up to make a show, "This is just a neighbor visit." He curls his lips, staring into Steve's eyes, and Steve knows he's giving him exactly what he was going for with that - surprise and horror - but his eyes shoot up too quick to even think of concealing his reaction.

Sam and Maria are frozen in a fit of anger at his sides, he can feel it - they are about to counter, when Redhead speaks instead.

"We recently bought the concession bordering your north-east side," she says, her voice lush and deep like a good Cabernet. She sticks out her hand, golden bangles clinking. "Natalie Rushman. Mr Barnes' partner." She purses her lips together gently, the glossy finish almost blinding under the sun, and looks at Steve's face intently.

Steve hates himself for it, but he eventually shakes her hand, slow and firm. There's something in her that commands respect - just as much as Barnes calls for being punched in the face when he says: "We figured there couldn't possibly be anything _that_ special about this vineyard that couldn't be replicated a couple of acres away."

Steve just _wishes_ something better than straight up hitting the guy was coming up in his mind. There's a couple of seconds of dead silence, and he knows Sam and Maria are fuming: Barnes just looks at them with a vague smirk, savoring the victory. He plucks his aviators hanging from the collar of his tshirt and puts them on like it's 3am outside of a club. He curls his fingers around Natalie's waist, pulling her closer lightly.

"Regardless, the offer is still up. The place has so much _potential,_ " Steve is just appalled, "I'll see you around town, maybe, we could sit down and discuss it. But I'll choose the grappa." he says, all casual, and lands a firm pat on Steve's arm - and Steve _winces,_ because who the hell does this guy think he is?

Bucky and Natalie turn on their heels and walk away. Her stilettos move on the gravel like it's a red carpet, and Steve knows they're in to their depths.

 ***

The axe comes down swift - the log splits in half with a crack. Steve straightens up, looking at the pile of logs - maybe he has worked out enough of his anger that he can let out a breath through his clenched jaw. Next to him, Sam cracks another log, the sound covered by the noise of Maria's chainsaw cutting through the branches.

"We're well established. We have a nice market but it's a loyal one,"Sam tries to say over the noise. "It won't be easy for them to take us down."

Maria turns around, the chainsaw still running. "They can surely _try,_ " and she looks like she means it, with her combination of floral skirt, boots and protective goggles. 

Steve picks up another log, his breath still not settled.

"They are threatening us. Either we sell or they'll copy our product on a bigger scale. They're cornering us," Steve says through his teeth, staring at the log.

"We patented every step of our production, they can't legally-" says Sam.

"You can't hope they won't turn out to be a duplicitous low-life, Sam. You saw them today." Maria cuts in. She startles when Steve suddenly throws the log to the ground.

"Gotta go see Peggy, told her I was gonna be there at five," he mumbles, as he paces away towards the house.

Sam and Maria look at him disappearing inside.

"I kinda expected him to rip that log in half, for some reason." says Sam. Maria shrugs. Weird.

 ***

"Fuck! I've been picking up only the front loop again," says Steve. He's trying to get a hold of his doily, but the can't seem to concentrate.

"Beginner's mistake, Steve. Something on your mind?" says Peggy from her armchair, crocheting the millionth granny square. Peggy is in her 90s, but still rocking it. Steve met her when he first moved there - in a twist of events Peggy had been the one helping Steve with his grocery bags, and they immediately hit it off. Sam used to poke fun at him for hanging out with someone 70 years older than him, but he couldn't help it. Peggy was sharp and witty, with more life in her than half of the teenagers in town, and she was smart and had a huge repertoire of stories. She was in a special division of the army back in WWII when Italy was occupied, but more than half of their men got captured and the division sort of died after that. She ended up joining the Resistance, married an Italian and decided to stay once the war was over. 

Steve sighs. The doily looks like it got run over by a truck.

"I always have a plan, you know," he lets the doily fall in his lap, "But this time, I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. They've got money, and that always wins in business."

"Resources can be acquired." says Peggy, her British accent lacing over her words. "Barnes has his image to sell, but you have your ways too."

Steve looks at her from below his eyebrows. 

"You're a good man, maybe not a perfect businessman, but when people buy your wine, they know it comes from a someone who _cares,_ " Peggy continues. "Let them see it. You're a people's person, use it."

Steve chuckles. Peggy knows him very well.

"So I guess I'm going to the event tonight,"

"Yes. Besides, for as much as I enjoy the time we spend together, you'll eventually need to find someone your own age to hang out with," she shoots a wrinkly smirk at him. Steve throws his head to the back of the couch, whining jokingly.

"I wish I was alive in the 40s, met you when you were younger," Steve tilt his head back up, "We'd have made a great couple - don't deny it. I'd would have taken you out dancing - probably only stepped on your toes the whole time, but - _Captain Rogers_ has a nice ring to it, no?"

"Oh, Steve, you don't want to wish to have seen the war. It changes you in ways you'd never expect… This is the way this world wanted us to be, and I think it always delivers on getting the right people together. But you gotta get your ass out there." They both chuckle at her attempt to American.

Steve lazily stretches out his hand holding his work. "Help me fix it?"

"Always."

 ***

Steve, Sam and Maria greet the girl manning the entrance to the fancy restaurant that's holding the event. It's supposed to be a semi-official get together with international "wine professionals" who have interests in the area. The director of SHIELD, the most important american organization for the protection and promotion of wine culture, is also supposed to be there, which is one of the main reasons why Steve is wearing one of his old fancy suits from his time in DC. The jacket is a bit tighter than he remembered, it's probably because of all the heavy lifting they end up doing at the vineyard.

They have been there before - the town is small and La Grotta is the go-to place for informed tourists and wine connasseuirs; they're also one of their biggest clients. The party is downstairs - there's the main room upstairs with the big patio, the view on the Tuscan countryside and all, and an equally large cellar below, once used for wine and now only decorated with bottles.

There's already a lot of people there, when Steve and the others get to the bottom of the stone stairs. Most of them they know, or they have seen before - Sam immediately gets greeted by some old sommelier pals, and Maria joins in.

Steve goes to the wine bar almost immediately - it's a wine event after all, so there's nothing embarrassing about tasting what they've got. He picks a chilled rose', one of his favorites - crisp and fresh. He's sipping it, tasting it carefully, when someone talks to him.

"It's an honor to have you here," Steve turns, gets offered a hand. "Phil Coulson, from SHIELD."

Steve shakes the hand. "Steve Rogers. 'M sorry, have we met before?" he asks, a genuine question.

"Oh, no. But I'm a big fan of your work. I've watched you grow - I mean, not you, the winery." Coulson looks like he fucked up something he reharsed too much. "I was wondering… I have a couple of bottles I saved from your 2010 batch made from the Generosa - would you be able to _sign_ them?"

That's about the weirdest request Steve has ever heard in his life, but he smiles at Coulson anyway. If someone is saving their bottles they must be doing something right.

"I have to admit, I really hoped you'd be here tonight," Coulson continues, "We've been following your production, and everybody has been deeply impressed. If it's ok, I'd like to introduce you to our director, Mr Fury,"

Steve mentally thanks his friends for pushing him to attend tonight. Nick Fury is sort of a legend in the distillery world, and the SHIELD is one of the most prominent organizations. If they are about to go to war, Steve will be glad to have them on his side.

Coulson directs him through the crowd, before tapping on the shoulder of Fury. Steve knows about his eye patch, but in person it's even more striking. He looks like he stepped out of an action movie. Instead they're a bunch of grownups making a living out of grapes. Go figure.

"Mr Rogers. It's a pleasure," Fury says, shaking Steve's hand. "I will cut right to the chase here: we're putting together this… initiative, if you will - we're trying to form a tight group of winemakers to be in the forefront of promoting wine culture. We know you'd like to keep a low profile, but your work in preserving rare vines has caught our interest."

Steve couldn't be more glad to hear that. When he and Sam started, the idea was to be sort of this rescue farm for dying vines that were about to disappear. He didn't think their efforts could be recognized like this one day.

Steve and Fury keeps discussing the opportunity for a while - SHIELD would provide funds, and Steve would become a spokesperson for the program. They already got the Stark Vineyards from California on the team, which is impressive. Steve desperately needs the first half of the deal, and he guesses he could get used to the second one. Off the side, Sam and Maria are individually deep in conversation with other sommeliers, judging from the rate at which the word "tannin" is dropped. The night is going surprisingly well, thinks Steve.

Then of course, it's not.

There's a tide of chatter flooding the room - something is going on near the stairs, and sure enough, when Steve turns Barnes is coming in, shaking everybody's hands loudly. The whole room turns. Cameras come out of nowhere, flashing photos of Barnes with various guests - and Steve is instantly _fuming_. First of all, Bucky wasn't even invited, Steve checked the list - which means that either someone learned he was in town and just _had_ to have the celebrity drop by, or he just showed up, knowing full well no one was gonna turn him away. It's probably the latter, considering the owner of the restaurant is shaking his hand with a slightly embarrassed face now - _"We weren't expecting you, it's an honor, what can I get you"_. 

The brazen disregard this guy has for his own craft is appalling. Even his attire is out of place, but he doesn't care: he just threw a black leather jacket over the tshirt and pants he was wearing earlier and just showed up like that. Steve knows there isn't any written law about wearing blazers to wine events, but everybody does it to keep some decor. But not Barnes, he just rubs his fame in your face and you're supposed to like it. Well, Steve doesn't.

His thoughts are probably blatantly written all over his face when Bucky makes his way up to him and Fury. He has acquired a glass of red, probably a full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon, judging from the deep ruby color, and he's got that smile plastered on his lips. He stops right in front of them, looking like he's gonna start a conversation - instead he clings his glass to Steve's, who isn't expecting it at all.

"Cin-cin," he says, locking his eyes with Steve's while he sips. "Dark berries, light tones of smoked wood," he goes on, then frowns. "In _desperate_ need of another fifteen minutes of air, though. Too bad." 

He really doesn't care that whoever put time and effort into picking than wine could very well be hearing what he just said. Steve just can't have that. 

Without thinking, he swiftly plucks Bucky's glass from his hand and swaps it with his own. 

"Here, have mine. 2013 Domaine des Diables Bonbon Rose', chilled to perfection," says Steve, planting his stony gaze on Bucky's face. Barnes is surprised; his eyes search Steve's expression quickly. He blinks, then he just sips from his glass nonchalantly.

"Zesty. Mineral. But it needs aging to bring the red fruits to the front." Bucky retorts, and looks back at Steve, his lips curling ever so slightly in a grin. Steve has too much respect for the wine he's holding to pour it on Bucky's head right this moment, but _oh, if he wish he didn't._

Fury cuts the moment of silence. "Mr Barnes. It's a pleasant surprise to see you. What brings you here?"

Bucky shrugs. "Oh, you know. New York begins to get gross this time of year, I figured I could fly away a bit, see what's out there… What better place than Tuscany, right?"

"I suppose the fact that Hydra bought most untouched land just out of town doesn't have anything to do with it?" asks Coulson, all smug.

Bucky chuckles. "Ah, yeah, I do find it hard not to mix work and leisure. I've been put in charge of kickstarting the property - a very stimulating enterprise."

Steve didn't even think who was backing up Barnes - and Hydra Spirits is possibly the worst corporation he could have possibly dreamed of. They specialize in trading the overpriced craze of the moment - which mostly means ripping off the clientele with knock-offs of the more genuine stuff.

They're fucked, basically.

Steve suspects Fury and Coulson knew all along, which is why they flew all the way to Tuscany just to hang out and meet Steve. He's grateful that at least somebody cares, but that doesn't change the fact they are now going against something far bigger than just Barnes' personality - which is really saying something.

Bucky stands there just for the sake of not actually giving a shit to the people in front of him: he keeps waving beyond them, shooting smiles and gently squeezing hands with people passing by.

"'Scuse me," Steve mumbles, "Gonna grab a bite," and he paces away from the group. If he's forced to share his air another minute with Barnes, he's pretty sure he's gonna snap the glass' stem in half.

At the buffet counter, he picks up a couple of canapes - but he almost chokes on them when Bucky pops out by his side.

"So what's good tonight," he asks, shoving a canape in his mouth.

"Would you leave me alone," Steve shoots back immediately, his voice down an octave.

"Steve Rogers," Bucky looks at him, "I came down here looking especially for you tonight. Don't be such a buzzkill."

"I am _not_ the buzzkill here," creaks Steve in return, angrily crowding more canapes on his plate, "Our business has been going great - _is going great,_ and then _you_ had to come along with your great corporate plans for churning out _table wine_. At best." Steve feels kinda heated and splotchy, even though he realizes right away that his insult is most definitely on the weak side.

Bucky trails after Steve along the table, filling his own plate. That damn smile lingers on his lips. Steve really wants to punch it out of his features.

"What? You're gonna act like you don't like competition?" Bucky says, munching on a truffle mini-quiche. "Come on, you're so obvious. You get off on doing the right thing, you want praise - look at you!" Bucky gestures at the whole of Steve Rogers. Steve stops crowding bacon wrapped shrimps and looks at Bucky with a deep frown. "You crave attention… You want recognition." Steve is just gaping now. _What does this have to do with anything?_ his brain keeps repeating, but it doesn't come out. 

Bucky sips his - _Steve's_ \- rosé, and bites into a cheese croissant. "It's written all over you. You couldn't go off and become a regular winemaker - you had to pick the lost cause, the uncharted path,"

"It's not that," Steve blushes angrily, "It's about putting effort in something valuable even when nobody else sees it. And yeah, sometimes it would be nice to have some recognition for it."

Bucky grins wider, which makes Steve even more uncomfortable because now he has given Bucky something he was looking for, clearly. And Steve doesn't know what that is.

"That's why you don't like me," he says, pointing a ring-clad index at Steve. "You think I don't deserve my status. You think," Bucky keeps going, stepping closer into Steve's space, "that I've never done anything so great to justify fame."

So, ok, that's about a hundred percent accurate. 

Bucky shrugs, looking down at the bread basket. "But that's ok. Nobody does." He gestures around like he's making chit-chat. "People usually feel like there is a magical aura called 'talent' floating around me, as if that's something completely detached from myself."

Steve is about so feel sorry for him. For a moment, there's a glimpse of honesty in the way Bucky downplays his words. Then Steve remembers the guy wants to actively put him out of business.

"Boo-hoo. Life's so hard for the luxury industry billionaire."

Bucky's eyes shoot up from his glass, a silent chuckle on his face. Bucky looks _interested,_ and no, that wasn't was Steve was going for. Dammit. Any time he tries to be cutting and bitter with this guy, he just keeps smiling back, unfazed. And when he does, Steve's mind spaces - he can't conjure the words to get back at him. Right now he feels like he should flip the tables, reply something - but _he just had the last word here._ Bucky's eyes are too light. Steve can't grasp anything of what that's making him feel, and it's really frustrating. He just darts his own gaze back and forth Bucky's eyes, filling up with this bottled feeling. The corners of Bucky's eyes crinkle.

"Don't worry, my business plan isn't doe-eyeing my way into it," Bucky says, "Let me sit you down, let's say, in front of a coffee, and I can explain you how it's gonna go down."

Steve slams his plate down on the table and turns completely to face Bucky. He might be trembling a bit when he pushes out the words: " _Nothing_ is going to go down. You understand me? We're not selling, we're not backing out - there's nothing you can do that will intimidate us,"

"Buddy, this little speech is sure worthy of praise, but I don't know what you think you might do going up against us, honestly. We're gonna be bigger, more efficient, with wildly more outreach… It's live and let die, man. Your only good option is to sell now, make some money till you can, retire some place - you could even move and get yourself another pet project, no one's gonna stop you." Bucky has a simplistic matter-of-facty tone that unnerves Steve beyond anything conceivable. He steamrolls every argument under the "rules" of business, like it's the only option to live by - but Steve knows it's not true. He ran away from that dry, aseptic world and he found a different one, one built and inhabited by people who care. Steve knows it's a smaller world, a minority of people - he knows the price of trying to defend it is going to be high, but it's a price he's willing to pay. And if he's the only one, so be it. But he's willing to bet he's not.

"You are so sure you can take us down that easy - but I want to see it first. You can taste wine and remember dates, maybe smile at the cameras, but what do you know of managing anything else other than yourself? Pretty face in designer clothes - take that away, what are you?" blurts out Steve. Bucky stares at him, taking the beat with a vaguely surprised face. His lips part a bit, and for a moment Steve sees the ghost of an answer flash behind Bucky's grey eyes. But his lips seal back up.

Steve chugs the rest if his wine, slams the glass down, and leaves. He doesn't mean to bump into Bucky's firm shoulder in the process, but he does.

He fends through the crowd quickly - he happens to pass besides Sam, who sees him approaching and immediately realizes something's wrong. He squeezes his shoulder as Steve walks by. They don't need to even share any words to know Steve is gonna go back home and he'll tell Sam all about it when he gets back later. Right now, he needs some air.

Steve scrunches up his brows as he strides up the stairs, his steps echoing rhythmically off the stone walls.

_Pretty face?_

 ***

Steve opens the front door and steps in the living room, tossing his keys in the catch all on the console. It's dark. He doesn't turn on the light - instead he passes the couch and steps into the kitchen. It's a winery, so even in their kitchen they have a wine fridge; it glows lightly in the dark. Steve grabs a bottle opener from the drawer, and takes a second to choose a bottle. He settles for their own aged red. Only when he takes out the cork with a dull pop, he realizes he hasn't been catching his breath. He draws air shakingly in and out his lungs, as he pours the wine into the bulbous glass. 

Steve takes the first sip leaning on the kitchen counter. He likes being home, it feels right. He likes the rustic feel of the stone backsplashes, the terracotta tiles, the floral couch, the worn out fireplace, the mismatched chairs at the wooden table he built himself when they cut down the first tree to make room for the vines.

He draws another shaky breath. In the quiet dark of his own house - the only thing he can hear are the cicadas far outside - he can admit to himself that part of the problem lies in the way Bucky looks. Or moves. Probably both. Steve has disliked people before in his life, but there's something about Barnes that hits an exposed nerve in him and doesn't let him shake off his presence. Steve knows himself enough to admit - _just this one time, it'll be gone in the morning_ \- that if Bucky wasn't this _attractive_ , he'd have a much easier time dismissing him. And _yet_ , it's not all. Again, Steve has had his share of attractive people, but this feels more threatening somehow. It's the way Bucky's lips curl and move when he talks, and how they glisten with the red of the wine on them; it's the way his waist looks under the tshirt; it's how Bucky treats the space between them like he owns it.

Steve sighs. He moves and goes to flop down on the couch, an arm up over his eyes and the other still holding the glass between his fingers. _This is so stupid_ , he tells himself. It makes sense, though, and Steve is willing to be gentle enough with himself to allow his thoughts to trail off right now, so they won't bother him later. Truth is, Peggy is right when she tells him to get out there: he has been living and breathing the winery for the past years, with little to no time or care spent on romantic engagements, far less dating. It has been a combination of working hard and living in a very small town, not to mention the language barrier at first - there aren't plenty of girls to go out with, even though Steve knows that more than a couple would have given him a shot; and when it comes to guys… small towns in catholic countries aren't meant for queer people to stay. Steve knows that all the friends he has there wouldn't judge him for it at all, but still the chances of finding an interesting guy to date are close to nonexistent. And the problem is that Steve is much more into guys than he is into girls. So given the whole situation he has kinda put the whole finding a person for intimacy thing in the back burner - which does not mean it's not still _burning_. And right now Bucky and his damn skinny pants are the hot news in town, and it's damn inconvenient, because Steve needs to gather all his tricks and tools to survive this blow - and a distraction it's the last thing he wants. Bucky Barnes is a goddam problem in every way possible.

Steve finishes his wine. He dozes out on the couch to mildly angry, foggy thoughts mixed with visions of Bucky's gaze.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on my [tumblr](http://didipenny.tumblr.com/) !  
> Visual reference for Bucky and Steve:  
>  long hair  
>  swagger  
> 


End file.
